


Antigravity

by Trojie



Series: The Linen-Ruining Escapades of the Giant Man-Puppy and the Patron Saint of Denial [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Blow Jobs, Couch Sex, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Season/Series 01, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:25:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's a fidget, Dean's a mellow drunk. Everyone's a winner, except the motel room's couch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Antigravity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cosmonaught](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmonaught/gifts).



> EVERYTHING IS S1 HI-JINKS AND SMILES AND PORN. NO-ONE EVER DIES. THE BOYS ARE ALWAYS HAPPY. Also this is cosmonaught's fault again <3 And by 'fault' I mean she alpha-read it, provided suggestions and generally made it happen.

Sam doesn't really fit on the furniture, is his trouble. It means he has a hard time settling down. Dean's so freaking grateful for the invention of the laptop - it keeps Sam nicely occupied and distracted, means that his sitting-down time is good and productive. But when they're just trying to hang out - when it's just them and some beers and a movie, or whatever, Sam apparently can't sit still in one place like a normal person. 

He gets worse and worse the more he drinks, too, moves around and rearranges himself and gets more and more octopus-like until he's got his shoulders where his ass should be, his legs hooked up over the back of the couch, and his head dangling out over the floor, stupid floppy hair flopping everywhere, still somehow managing to drink his beer like he's figured out the secrets of antigravity. It's something he used to do when he was like, seven years old (minus the beer, obviously - Dean didn't start letting him have beer until he was about twelve) and he's never really stopped. 

'One of these days you're gonna smack your head on the floor and get concussion doing that, and I'm not hauling your giant ass to the ED,' Dean says. 

Sam eels himself up and around apparently just using the strength in his torso (which Dean does not find even in the slightest bit impressive or a massive fucking turn-on) until he's got his head pillowed on Dean's thigh. 'Better?' he asks lazily. 

'If I get a dead leg,' Dean threatens him half-heartedly, but he doesn't mean it. Sam's warm, nice to pet, and Dean runs his fingers through Sam's hair and lets him lie there. Sam gets sick of crooking himself like an L and stretches out, hooks his knees over the other arm of the couch instead of its back, splayed on his stomach with his face in Dean's thigh, one hand gently clenching and unclenching somewhere around Dean's hip. 'Can you even see the movie?' Dean asks. 

'Seen it,' Sam mumbles, fingertips tracing under Dean's belt. 

Dean's seen it too, he thinks. He can't remember what it's called, but either he's seen it before or he's seen Stallone play the same character in so many goddamn movies that it doesn't matter any more. Drunk, octopus-y Sam is a lot less predictable, and a lot more interesting, particularly when he starts nosing at Dean's zipper a bit more aggressively. 

'Hey there, scout, whatcha up to?' Dean asks. It's probably the beer but he feels warm and fuzzed-out, they've got a rare night where they're not currently aware of anything killing anyone, the motel's not as gross as it could be, and Sam's where he can see him. Everything's good right now in Dean-world. 

He'd be quite happy to sit here like this forever, but Sam starts pushing at Dean's knees, suddenly a man on a mission. 'Blowing you, what does it look like?' he says, like Dean's an idiot. 'You gonna spread 'em or what?'

Dean can't quite work out how Sam plans on actually getting this blowjob started, given he's starfished over the couch, but whatever, even if Sam just wanted to lie there and nuzzle Dean's dick, Dean'd have no problem with it. He relaxes back into the seat and lets his knees fall open more. 

Sam gets straight in on it, though, lipping at the zipper trying to get it down without having to use his hands. Dean goes to help him and gets his fingers bitten for his trouble. 'Uh-uh,' says Sam, propping himself up on his elbows to get a better angle, or something. 'Mine.' He makes a mock-growling noise like a puppy and drags Dean's zipper open with his teeth. He pops the button too, somehow, yanking at the denim around the buttonhole so it slips free, and Dean's done his level best not to think about what Sam got up to with other people while he was at Stanford but that's a new one on him and Sam has to have picked it up somewhere. 

Sam noses his way into Dean's fly and breathes hot over where his dick is starting to chub up, and Dean decides he doesn't care if Sam learnt hands-free cocksucking off a fucking unicorn, as long as he _keeps doing it_.

'Mmph,' says Sam, getting a hand involved long enough to grab Dean's wrist and planting Dean's fingers back in his hair. 'More petting,' he says. Then he kitten-licks under the head of Dean's cock and says, 'Going commando, huh? Classy, Dean.'

'Makes your life easier,' Dean points out as calmly as he can when Sam's mouthing at him like that. 

'Hmm,' Sam mumbles. Dean doesn't need to see his face to know he's rolling his eyes. 'Nope,' he says after another second. 'Get up.' His mouth slips free and he's jackknifing to his feet before Dean can even get his brain back into gear. 

'What?' Dean says, starting to push to stand up basically on autopilot off the fact that he's being given an order and Sam's using his no-nonsense voice. Which is not a turn-on. Except then Sam makes his little growly-puppy noise again and grins.

'Even better idea,' he says, and yanks Dean's pants down before Dean can do a thing about it, throws them away. Pushes Dean back into the couch, and fuck, he's a blur when he wants to actually move, Sammy is, he's too fast for Dean to keep up with, not when he's still feeling warm-happy off the beer-Sam-relaxation combo. Dean gets stripped naked without having to lift a finger to help, and Sam dumps his own clothes just as fast. And okay, maybe Dean is starting to appreciate the take-charge aspect of Sam's game, because what could be better than having this to look at?

He stretches out lazily in his seat, arms over the back of the sofa, lets his knees fall apart a bit because he really wouldn't mind if Sam wanted to get back between them right now, and just lets himself look. 'Okay,' he says, tracking up and down Sam's lean, long body. 'What's the idea, then?'

Sam gets on the couch again and lies down. 'Just, stay still, okay?' he says. 'I wanna try this.' He breathes over Dean's dick for just a second, makes it jerk hard enough that Sam laughs, licks the tip of it and then reaches out and grabs the other arm of the couch and fucking hauls himself around until he's doing that wrong-way-up shit again except over Dean this time. His knees are on the back of the couch and his head is in Dean's lap.

'Awesome,' he says, just before he bobs his head down and swallows Dean whole.

Dean grabs at the couch, white-knuckling it already because fuck, fuck, his baby brother's got a wicked mouth and the things he's doing with his tongue are probably illegal in most states and the fact that he's doing them to Dean is illegal in every state and maybe it's Dean's antiauthoritarian streak but that _still hasn't stopped being hot_. 

Sam's fucking cock is right in Dean's face, too, which doesn't help. Dean has to find something to distract himself or this is not gonna take very long and he'll never be able to look Sam in the eye again. So Dean doesn't wait to find out what the next step in Sam's plan was, if there even is one - he just leans his face forward and licks. Which turns out to be a serious tactical error.

'Jesus! Teeth, Sam! _Teeth!_ '

Sam pulls off with an undignified slurp (okay, maybe Dean overreacted, but you can't be too careful). 'So quit startling me,' he growls.

'I'm sorry,' Dean huffs, trying to recover his dignity. 'You _don't_ want your dick sucked, then?' Dean can't see Sam's face, but he's pretty sure Sam's eyes are crossing right now. Because if there's one thing Sam really, really likes, it's blowjobs. 'Are you trying to tell me that turning this into a sixty-nine wasn't your plan the whole time?'

'Shut up,' says Sam sulkily, and gets back down to business.

Dean shuts himself up with Sam's dick, because he's the best brother ever. 

From this angle he can't exactly get his mouth _around_ Sam, so he licks and kisses instead, mouthing at what he can reach without putting a crick in his neck, and Sam fucking goes to town in his lap, because he _can_ apparently do … whatever he wants, actually, so Dean's trying to keep coordinated enough to make this good for Sam, while his previous slow-burn good feeling, all beer-buzz and warmth and Sam wanting to snuggle up to him (Dean doesn't cuddle, obviously, but he indulges Sam because of … force of habit or something) turns into _fuck yeah, I'm getting laid_. 

Sam's mouth is fucking heaven. Wet and soft and he works his tongue over and over in the right spots and Dean's about ready to blow way faster than he wants to be, because he wants this to go on forever - the soft huff of Sam's breath against the skin of his inner thighs, the tickle of his hair, the way he smells, like motel soap and his own skin and the leather of the Impala. It's all Sam, and it's all addictive, and Dean could drown in it, he really could. The taste of Sam, where Dean's lipping the head of his cock, catching the wetness it's leaking, is intoxicating. He's basically making out with his brother's dick. He would question his life choices but he's too far gone on the sex to be that bothered. 

‘Dean,’ Sam says, and pulls off. ‘Dean, hold on.’ 

Dean makes a disapproving noise around Sam’s cock and tries his best to shove his dick back into his brother’s face. Sam takes it but he bucks back up against Dean _hard_ and somehow, he succeeds in toppling the entire couch over forwards with an awful noise of springs breaking. Part of the fold-out bed mechanism shoots out and nearly catches Dean in the face on the way past. Fucking motel room furnishings. 

The couch-bed was apparently made up just in case Sam and Dean were going to have visitors that weren't sharing _their_ beds, because sheets settle gently over them like snow, or possibly nuclear fallout. 

Dean ends up on top of Sam in a mess of limbs and cheap "cotton" sheets, which is not how he wanted this to go, but Sam makes a squeaking noise Dean is never gonna let him live down and that's kind of worth it because hey, ammunition.

'Shut up,' Sam growls, and rolls them over, gets them tangled up in white and struggles to pull free enough to sit up. He towers over Dean when he's sitting on him like that. Fuck. Dean really needs to get Sammy to ride him sometime - he kind of wants to tie Sam's hands to a headboard and see how long his baby brother can play rodeo, see if he can get him to blow his load just from that - but before he can make the suggestion Sam slides back down and puts his mouth back where it belongs.

'Jesus, Sammy,' Dean groans, sitting up on his elbows. 'What's gotten into you?'

Sam pulls off wetly and grins up at Dean through his bangs, which _jesus fuck,_ is a mental image that's going to stay with Dean for a while. 'Well I was hoping you,' he says. 'But you're not working with me here.'

He looks like some kind of angel all half-naked and swathed in drapery but his smile's all dimples and sin and let's face it, angels don't suck cock, or if they do they'd never be as good at it as Sam is. Dean grabs hold of Sam's head, tangles his fingers in Sam's hair, and thunks his head back down against the floor because it takes too much effort to coordinate holding himself up when Sam's sucking his brains out his dick. 

Sam's shoulders, his broad, broad shoulders (and when did Sam stop being a matchstick, seriously? Okay he still looks like the weirdo giraffe baby whose giraffe parents abandoned him at birth, but under the baggy hoodies and the twelve-year-old's haircut, kid put on some muscle while Dean wasn't there to see it), nudge Dean's legs even further apart. Dean can hear cloth tearing which he figures must be one of the gross couch-bed sheets but he doesn't care, because the shoulder Sam has hooked up under his thigh is moving up-down-up-down and just the _idea_ that Sam's jerking himself off while blowing Dean is enough to make Dean go crazy. He thrusts up into Sam's mouth, can't help himself, and moans.

Sam chokes a little around Dean, pinches him on the soft skin of his thigh to get him to behave (and hoo-boy, okay that might be a thing), and that's it, Dean's gone. Off like a firecracker, like Sammy struck a match and lit him up from the inside. 

Dean doesn't pass out during sex, obviously, but there must have been like, a power cut or something because everything goes kind of dark and when the lights flick back on Sam's licking his fingers with a pleased smirk on his face and Dean's a wet, sticky mess from the chest down. 

'Aw, Sam, didja have to?'

'I like it,' Sam says, like that's all that matters. He pulls more of the sheet away and starts sort of licking Dean's skin clean, and Dean flops back into the pile of clothes and broken couch-bed and decides that Sam can have this one. He'll win next time.


End file.
